


Rekindle

by Dissolute



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Family, Gen, Generic Inquisitor - Freeform, Happy Ending, Mage Rights, Mages, Non-Specific Inquisitor, Sided with Mages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-22 23:39:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4855016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dissolute/pseuds/Dissolute
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fiona has been forced into many bad choices in her life, but keeping herself away from Alistair has been the hardest. The Inquisitor disagrees with its necessity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rekindle

**Author's Note:**

> Alistair & Fiona, Celene/Briala, and Varric/Bianca: the trio of Dragon Age pairings I need to have a happy ending to feel okay about life.

“You sold us to _Tevinter?”_ Lysas hisses. He is the first to speak up, but his face is an echo of the disgust worn on almost everyone in the room, and Fiona has to resist the urge to shrink into herself. “We vote for independence, and _you_ sell us into slavery. Unbelievable.”

Linnea is one of the few who seem, at least, apathetic to the news. “Indentured servitude. And why is that so bad? Because Tevinter is run by people like _us?_ We’ve been fighting for our freedom for centuries. If it takes ten more years of work to achieve— _without_ having to hide from the templars that have followed us every step of the way here—it’s worth it. It’ll just be Circle life with less silencing.”

“It’s run by maleficarum, Linnea. They are nothing like us.” Lysas shakes his head. “And even if they weren’t, it’s slavery, no matter what name you call it by. Maybe that doesn’t sound so bad to you, human, but I’m an elf. _Many_ of us are elves. In Tevinter, even if you are born with magic, that only ends one way.”

“An elf made the deal!” Linnea snaps. “Or were you too blinded by your rage to look at the Grand Enchanter’s ears? Perhaps you should not believe every word of Chantry propaganda spread about a country you’ve never even seen.”

“The Inquisition has extended an offer of—”

“The _Inquisition_ is an offshoot of the Chantry, started by _both_ of the Divine’s fucking Hands. The same Chantry that has _already_ been enslaving us for our entire lives.” Linnea steps closer to Lysas, voice dropping. “The same Chantry that led an Exalted March against your kind—against Fiona’s kind— _twice._ Don’t give me that shit.”

 _“Enough,”_ Fiona declares, scrounging for whatever semblance of authority she still commands. “The point is academic. The deal has already been made.” She deflates, regrets the sentence to come even before she has said it. “It was the only course of action I had left.”

She expects an argument, but most of the Apprentices and Enchanters present simply scowl and turn away, resuming their day for lack of any better option. They know they will not survive unless they are united, however much distaste they may hold for their leadership. Only Linnea offers a show of support, a hand lain gently on her shoulder. Fiona does not find much comfort in the gesture.

* * *

Fiona did not feel this way when she had to hand her newborn off to Maric, knowing deep in her heart that it was a decision she would forever hate herself for making; did not feel this way when she was conscripted into the Grey Wardens, an extended death sentence by any measure; did not feel this way when kicked out from the very same order that rescued her from her gilded prison, only to force her right back into it; did not feel this way as a young girl, ripped away from her mother when her magic first made its presence known.

Now, she simply feels _broken._ The flame that has always burned inside of her, the fire that allowed her to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with every First Enchanter that remained after Dairsmuid and declare that _they have had enough_ —it is simply gone. The magister was working for the ‘Elder One,’ the very same person who has torn a hole into the sky. She, and every one of the hundreds that entrusted her with their protection, have been thrown out of Ferelden by her own unknowing son, and now find their fate in the hands of a single person. The Herald of the woman whose words on magic have been used to justify the Circle’s very existence.

She turns to face the Herald as though they were her executioner. “It seems we have little choice but to accept whatever you offer us.” The suggestions the Herald’s companions throw out from behind Fiona land in her back like throwing knives.

The Herald faces her, gives a small, respectful nod of the head, and manages to find the only response still capable of surprising her: “Grand Enchanter, we would be honored to have you fight at the Inquisition’s side as allies.”

* * *

Whether by providence or by luck, their partnership means the mages are enjoying more goodwill after Haven than they ever have before, and the Inquisition has kept its word. They are—at least until a new Divine is elected to snatch it all away— _free._ She has watched two or three ask to leave Skyhold, the trauma from Haven’s fall too deep to continue serving, and Cassandra simply scowled when faced with the question. _“For the hundredth time, you are allies, and I am not your handler.”_ They took her at her word, and walked away. Unimpeded.

It takes Skyhold a while to be repaired enough to support a crowd’s worth of people in the Great Hall, but the Inquisitor calls the mages, templars, and high-ranking staff together for an announcement when it is, Josephine presiding.

“Between the rush to close the Breach after Redcliffe, outrunning Corypheus and his Red Templars, and getting Skyhold presentable, it has occurred to me that I’ve failed to make the terms of alliance official.” If they notice every mage and templar in the room tensing at the same moment, they do not show it. “Although we are not affiliated with the Chantry, and cannot claim to predict its future, know this: every mage in the Inquisition is welcomed as a free citizen of Skyhold, free to leave at any time. There are no more qualifications to this than there are for any of the soldiers, servants, staff, or refugees present. Though the templars that have chosen not to follow Samson are welcomed with the same open arms, none are present for the purpose of ‘watching’ the mages here, and actions to that end are expressly forbidden.”

One group is decidedly less enthused with this statement than the other, but the Inquisitor forges on, straightening in anticipation of the next sentence. Every body in the room follows suit, whether consciously or not.

“Let it be known that neither the Rite of Tranquility nor the Rite of Annulment will _ever_ be performed in Skyhold, nor will they ever be performed outside of it in my name.”

It is the first time Fiona has seen Linnea and Lysas grin at the same time. She had not been convinced it was possible, before… though she still suspects the former’s is only because of the templars’ palpable discomfort, powerless in the wake of the Order’s downfall to protest. Still. Baby steps.

“The Inquisition remains a military order, however, and there is still the matter of the chain of command. I wish to reaffirm, for as long as you do choose to remain, Fiona’s leadership of the mages outside of the Inner Circle. She stands beside—not below—Captain Rylen’s leadership of the allied templars, both underneath Commander Cullen.”

Though few are happy to hear that, only a handful express any outward discomfort. Lysas is among them.

“With all due respect, Inquisitor,” he calls out, “Fiona is the reason we were almost thralls of the Venatori.” He looks as if he is about to say more, but the Inquisitor raises a hand, and it dies in his mouth. Josephine speaks first, however.

“The Grand Enchanter is your superior, and you will _not_ denigrate her so in an open setting. Or have you forgotten the Inquisitor’s words so quickly?” Words spoken in the same calm civility the Ambassador always uses, but there is bite behind them, and the look on Lysas’s face is one of rethinking every life choice he has yet made.

“Fiona called for the vote that led to your rebellion from the unjust treatment forced upon you from birth,” the Herald says. “Fiona kept hundreds of you safe and cared-for in nigh-impossible circumstances. Fiona found you refuge; first in Redcliffe, then in Haven, then in Skyhold. Her only crime was being forced into Corypheus’s plans as the result of Alexius’s time manipulation, where every option was stolen from her before she could think to make it. Under the weight of everything thrown against her, that she even managed what she did is _remarkable._ I have nothing but faith in her, both as a leader and as a member of the Inquisition.”

It is possible that she is the most surprised of them all at the words just spoken. The Herald has more faith in her than she does.

… But she can feel the tiniest rekindling inside of her, nonetheless.

* * *

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” Fiona says, unable to meet the set of eyes across from her. She shouldn’t have mentioned Alistair at all, but she had to know if he said… well, _anything._ If he was happy with the life she never wanted him to have. She made the hardest choice she’s yet been faced with to protect him from the Wardens and the crown, and Maric could not even fulfill that for her. Could not let her have the _one fucking decision_ in her life that would have actually turned out well, given her some peace.

She does not meet the Inquisitor’s eyes to ensure she will not betray her thoughts to them, but it is the same action that prevents her from seeing the glint of determination that arises. They need to make a request of a Nightingale.

* * *

King Alistair greets his visitor with perhaps a bit more fealty than he would afford them otherwise, but he hopes the unspoken apology for Redcliffe in his deference is made clear. If any of his court notice, well, they are the Herald of Andraste, are they not? No one would question respect for the chosen of the Maker’s wife. He regrets the note on which they last parted, and it is not a choice he would have made if not for the concern for those who would scrutinize—or exploit—excessive leniency. It is not the first time he curses his crown.

They both go through the motions until they are afforded some privacy, and all at once, he sees the Herald’s walls go down. Perhaps he _should_ be offended at the baseless familiarity with which they act, but he is not confident in his ability to force the disparaging words out of his mouth without a sigh of relief accompanying them.

He drops his own walls too quickly in turn, if the sting the next sentence causes is any indication.

“Your Majesty…” A pause, and they clear their throat and try again, voice as soft as they can make it. “Would you like to meet your mother?”

* * *

“Forgive me, Your Worship, for asking for what must be the hundredth time, but it seems pertinent now that I’m _standing outside her door,”_ he snaps. It took too long to travel to Skyhold, too long to settle his affairs back in Denerim, _far_ too long to be faced with the answers he has long since given up the hope of getting, and the blighted would-be-prophet still refuses to extend so much of an olive branch as her _name,_ so he could at least properly greet her. “Please, will you—”

“—I am afraid you would find very little comfort in her identity, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, well, _that_ doesn’t set me on edge at _all.”_

They turn to him, face in full Leader Of The Inquisition mode, and he has to fight the urge to fidget as though he is being chastised for something. He’s the King of Ferelden, for the Maker’s sake.

“Your Ma— _Alistair._ She has become… an important friend to me. _Whatever_ your first reaction may be, I beg you to suppress it, for her sake. She has been hurt by much, and she desperately needs this, no matter how she may try to insist you’re better off without her. If you have any doubts, I promise you I will show you the proof after. Just… be gentle.”

He swallows down tension, and nods. They give a reassuring smile, then walk away to allow for some privacy. It takes him three minutes to work up the courage to knock.

* * *

Alistair and Fiona stare at one another in shock for a moment that feels even longer, though for entirely different reasons.

Fiona shakes her head and recovers first in an attempt to keep up the charade she doesn’t know is already over. “King Alistair, this is… a surprise. May I ask what need you have of me?”

He gestures weakly at the room. “May I come in, Grand Enchanter?”

“Oh! Please, forgive me, Your Majesty. Of course.” She flattens herself against the frame to allow him passage, and he bristles for only a second before taking the opening. He promised the Inquisitor he would ignore his first reaction (getting the fuck out of here), and, in an effort to keep to the _spirit_ of the request, ignores his second as well (a bitter mix between punching something and screaming until it starts to hurt). He doesn’t even doubt it. It’s _exactly_ the sort of punchline he’s come to expect from his life.

He sits in the nearest chair available, but she remains standing, uncertain on whether she should follow suit. She opens her mouth, but he cuts her off.

“I know you’re my mother.” He’s rather proud of how little his voice betrays the desire to strangle her. Or the Inquisitor. Or the Inquisitor, and her, at the same time. He _does_ have two hands, after all, and his advisers do so love to prattle on about efficiency. The only topic they like more is _keeping up appearances,_ and so his hands remain firmly in his lap.

The expression of horror on her face is _almost_ as satisfying.

“I—your—the Inquisitor must have—” She cuts herself off, and tears waste little time in intruding upon her face. Everything comes out at once: why she gave him up, how she _never_ wanted to but felt like there was no other choice, how very little of her own life has been anything more than impossible decisions forced unto her by others, how much she hates that his own life was forced upon _him,_ despite her best efforts, and he simply feels drained by the end of it. He stands in the middle of a plea for understanding, and the break in her words is abrupt.

Alistair moves to her front, and she braces herself for the words to come, but he has no bitterness left in this moment. He cups the side of his mother’s face with a shaky hand, and Fiona risks a glance at him. He can offer her little more than a weak, sad smile that barely reaches his eyes—but it _does—_ and she finds absolution in it.

He clears his throat. “I know a little something about being forced into choices. I would be a hypocrite if I blamed you for the same, wouldn’t I?”

* * *

A single night cannot mend what was lost, but it was a start, and they kept in contact as often as was possible for their positions.

When she is released from the Inquisition, after their focus is moved from one almost-god to another, she is offered the lofty title of Ferelden Court Enchanter. Orlais’ own has meant everything from court jester to a position of extraordinary power, but for her, it is ‘advisory’—glorified retirement, honestly—and it feels like the first rest she’s gotten since she was a babe first shuffled off to a Circle.

They talk, almost daily. She tells him tales of his father, and he of the Hero of Ferelden and everything he’s done in her absence. He can reduce her to tears of laughter with little more than a lilt and a look, and she has never been more proud in her life.

The Inquisition has done the impossible (a sentence they may as well make their job description) and gotten a Divine elected that allows all those born with her gift to truly be free, for now and forevermore. The actions of Marquise Briala and her Empress, the Inquisitor, and even Solas, have allowed elves more understanding and acceptance than they’ve had since Shartan first assisted Andraste. She has the family she never believed she could, however imperfect the steps to get there may have been.

Just perhaps, the choices she’s made weren’t that bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism, even/especially negative, is desired and encouraged.


End file.
